Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

Amero’s face betrayed his concern, and Miteera clapped him on the shoulder, saying, “Fear not! Elu I give — strong, good fighter. He guard good.”

Amero called for fodder to be brought to the hungry centaurs. The centaurs ate the sweet grass ravenously, plunging their faces into piles of fodder and coming up with great wads of hay sticking out their mouths and clenched in both hands. They chewed noisily, slurping water to wash everything down.

While they fed, Amero plied Miteera with questions about the elves. According to the centaur, Balif’s army had appeared in late summer, following the course of the Thon-Tanjan. They pushed into the centaurs’ homeland slowly, stopping every few leagues to erect stockades, which they filled with warriors. The two races first clashed about the time the leaves changed color. Elf cavalry wiped out one centaur warband, driving the rest of the herd into the eastern bend of the Tanjan, trapping them against the swift-flowing river. The destruction of the centaur tribe seemed certain. And then -

“B’leef turn away,” Miteera said. “Fight old enemy. Karada.”

Amero stepped back, thunderstruck. It could not be! The old centaur was mistaken — not Karada!

Karada, born Nianki, was Amero’s only blood kin. He had not seen her in twelve years. She was known throughout the plains as Karada, meaning “Scarred One,” from the scars of a vicious animal attack she bore on her face and neck. Fifteen years ago she and her band of nomads had been the scourge of the Silvanesti, raiding their outposts and threatening their new settlements. Twelve years ago, after being defeated by Balif, Karada’s shattered warrior band had come to Yala-tene, where rebels in her ranks tried to overthrow her and loot the village. Together, Amero, Duranix, Karada, and her loyalists had defeated the rebels, led by Hatu the One-eyed and Karada’s blood foe, Nacris.

With the village secure, Karada and her people had departed. Though Amero had hoped she would return, neither she nor her people had ever come back to the Valley of the Falls.

Stories had reached him of his sister’s ongoing fight against the Silvanesti. Karada had become the nemesis of the elf general Balif. For years she thwarted the elves’ plans of conquest in the north and east. Four years ago, wanderers passing through Yala-tene brought a tale of Karada’s death. Pursued by elite Silvanesti warriors, she and her band were said to have been trapped on a flat-topped escarpment in the far north, overlooking the inland sea. Five times the finest warriors of Silvanost tried to storm the plateau, and five times they were hurled back by Karada’s ferocious fighters. Finally an elf priest came forth and called down fire from the sky. The wooded plateau blazed from end to end, and when the flames went out days later, the elves found the burned bodies of Karada and all her band. That was the tale the wanderers told, and Amero had believed it — until now.

“She’s alive?” Amero asked eagerly, “Karada lives?”

Miteera shrugged. “I not see. Old Ones cry, ‘Karada! Karada!’ and ride away. Not kill us.” The old centaur’s eyes gleamed. “Karada is kokusun. No kill, ever.”

Amero didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t only the centaurs who thought his sister was a spirit. Many people, villagers and nomads alike, believed her to be the living spirit of the plains. Amero knew that if anyone could escape the might of Silvanos, it was Karada.

Amero saw the centaurs bedded down for the night then returned to the cave. He told Duranix what he’d learned from Miteera, both the story of Karada and that the centaurs had seen Tiphan and his two acolytes in the eastern mountains.

“Shall I go after Tiphan?” Duranix asked, slanting a look at his human friend.

“He chose this path. Let him follow it.”

“It would be convenient if the elves rid you of your problem.”

Amero was genuinely shocked. “I don’t desire his death!”

Duranix’s brazen lids clashed as he blinked. “I don’t see why not. He wouldn’t weep if you fell off the mountain.”

“I try to be better than that,” Amero said, kicking at the hearthstones.

The dragon stared as Amero gazed into the fire. Finally Duranix asked, “What about Karada? I can search for her, if you want.”

Amero shook his head. “How do you search for a kokusun? Can you spot a spirit from on high and take it in your claws?”

“If you ask me,” said the dragon, “I will try.”

Days followed days in a blur of hard labor, filth, and fear. Beramun worked in a tannery, stirring huge clay vats of molten beeswax. The wax was kept boiling as sheets of cowhide were dipped in it. Slaves had to lift the hot dripping hides out of the wax and carry them on poles to the molding shed where the leather was pounded over carved wooden forms and allowed to dry. The result was a shell of tough, hardened leather that other slaves trimmed into breastplates.

Roki worked in the molding shed. Beramun was able to see her several times a day when she brought in steaming sheets of leather. Roki explained that the raiders wore the hardened leather shells over their shirts to protect themselves from knives and spears.

“There are so many,” Beramun said, eyes traveling down row upon row of hide-covered molds filling the shed.

Roki flopped a hot, limp hide over her workbench. Molten wax splattered on both women, as it did a hundred times a day, leaving them with tiny, livid burns on their arms and legs.

“There must be more raiders than we’ve seen so far,” Roki said grimly.

Beramun learned other prisoners worked in a knappery, pounding out flint spearheads all day, and still another group cut and trimmed score upon score of green saplings for spear shafts. Zannian’s plan was all too obvious: He was going to raid on an even greater scale.

From sunrise to sundown the slaves labored. When it was too dark to see, their captors sounded a drum and herded them back to their walled enclosure. They were fed the same coarse food the raiders ate — a stew of nuts, wild greens, mushrooms, and the tough, unsavory meat of a common forest bird. It was not generosity that filled the slaves’ bowls. Roki said they were fed well so they could work all the harder.

After consuming their large bowls of flavorless but filling stew, the slaves went to sleep. Like the others, Beramun slept where she sat and did not stir until the drums rumbled at dawn, calling them back to work.

She wondered at her deep and dreamless rest. All her life she’d been a light sleeper. Living on the open savanna had taught her to remain alert to any possible danger. Since Almurk reeked of peril, how did she sleep so soundly?

One evening she feigned illness and gave away her food to those around her. Moments after finishing their meals, the captives fell fast asleep. Though tired and sore, Beramun felt alert. When vigorous shaking failed to rouse Roki, Beramun knew her suspicions were confirmed: The raiders were putting something in the food to make the prisoners sleep.

The next day she passed this information to Roki. The older woman was surprisingly unmoved.

“At least they allow us to rest,” she said with a shrug.

“But don’t you see? If we don’t take the food, we can stay awake and escape from here!”

Roki peeled a dry breastplate off the form and tossed it on the pile with the others she’d made that morning.

“We’ll never get out of here,” she said flatly. “If the raiders don’t catch us, the stormbird will. Or would you rather be eaten by some spirit-cursed monster in the forest?”

“I’d rather escape this muck hole and live free,” the girl insisted. A guard, sauntering through the molding hut, brusquely ordered Beramun back to work. She shouldered the poles and hissed at Roki, “I’ll not eat any more of their food.”